


The Little Things

by Princess_Kally (battlecities)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Angst, F/M, Murder Suicide, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battlecities/pseuds/Princess_Kally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A motorbike helmet, dirtied and crushed at his feet. A figurine of his former host, broken into tiny pieces of plastic. There were other things too, countless little other things which he broke in front of her eyes, laughing as he did so. AU Where Bakura wins. Vexshipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary subject to change. Murder suicide.

She hates him - loathes him with all her heart, hates him for killing her friends. She hates hates hates and she holds onto that hate until it fills her very being. Clutches it until it consumes her soul and leaves her heart burning with heat and her mind fuelled by cold fire.  She wonders if this is how he felt. She wonders if this is the same fire that he held onto, if this fire of contradictions - hot and cold -  is the one that had burnt in him for so long, fuelling him.

-

He is attracted to her, attracted and fascinated by her fire. Fascinated by the small things that she clings onto, reminders of her old life, her friends. So he takes them away, one by one, and crushes them. A broken electronic match maker toy that feebly beeps - compatible match! A cheap yoyo, cracked, strings cut and dirtied with blood. The yellow ribbon which once had belonged to his former host's classmate, snipped into jagged pieces. A motorbike helmet, dirtied and crushed at his feet. A figurine of his former host, broken into tiny pieces of plastic. There were other things too, countless little other things which he broke in front of her eyes, laughing as he did so. He watches as her fire grows and burns and feeds on the broken remnants of the things she once clung onto. And then he orders her to dance. He is fascinated by her dance. She is beautiful and her movements are graceful but not, elegant but not. She mixes rationality and practise with passion and stumbling, graceless movements. She lashes out as she dances, a hop and a step and a flick of the feet. He loves it, absolutely loves how her grief feeds her fire and turns her dance - once pure, uncorrupted ballet, into something that that is a corrupted mockery her former perfection. He watches as she loses herself in the movements, watches as she tries to forget the pain and the terror and the grief. And he loves it.

-

She smiles brokenly as the ofuda clings onto him, rendering him mortal for a few precious seconds. It is enough. She wishes it wasn't. The knife plunges into his chest, and she can feel the warm liquid that splashes onto her hand, tainting her. She is startled, numbly so, by the resigned look on his face, as if he knew what was coming, the bastard. He smiles softly, gently and this wasn't supposed to happen, he was supposed to be angry and defiant - not accepting - and her thoughts are cut short because he captures her lips one last time. And then he disappears, melting away into the Shadows that he was so fond of. It is so strange, so anti-climatic, and she wonders why she feels so empty.

The gun feels heavy in her hands, but she knows what she must do. There is nothing left here for her, nothing left here for anybody. She sits next to the splash of blood on the floor, noting that it was the only proof that proved he had ever existed. She is hyper-aware of the cold tip of the gun, pressed against her skull and her own clammy hands which desperately grip it.

 _If we could be reborn in our next life,_   _then let's meet again._

The thump of a dead body contacting with the floor echoes through the large dance stage. But like the metaphorical tree in the forest that falls, if there is nobody alive to hear it, did it truly happen?

-

_In another universe, in another time..._

_Anzu Mazaki snarled at the teenager who had challenged her to a DDR match. "You're the one who bumped into me today!" She snapped, a spark of anger having ignited at the memory of the person's rudeness._

_He raised an eyebrow. "And?"_

_"It's only polite to apologise when you bump into someone."_

_"I refuse. Are you going to play or...?" Anzu seethed at the condensing tone._

_"Fine."_

_Ten rounds, six draws and two wins each later, Anzu and the white haired man - whose name she had not gotten(come to think of it, he appeared to be eerily similar to her friend Ryou) - sat, utterly exhausted._

_"You're good." He remarked, a cocky smirk on his face._

_"As are you." Anzu replied coolly, still somewhat tired._

_"Your name?" He sounded a bit too cool, a bit too calm. But she could see it. There was a slightly nervous tremor to his voice. She smiled inwardly._

_"Anzu Mazaki. And yours?" She replied cheerfully._

_"Bakura Touzokuo."_

_"Well Bakura. How about another round?"_

_He laughed, loudly. "You've got nerve. Fine. Let's go. I'm not going easy on you though."_  
  
Anzu glared back at him. "Well neither am I." 

 


End file.
